Come, a tale of wolf and lion I tell
by pfirsichkind
Summary: It's a Sunday afternoon at the Café Musain, him burrowed in books, her behind the counter and their friends looking at a photograph. Enjolras remembers how he met the wolf: She was wild and reckless and with the street turning into war around them, she grinned at him with pure joy. AU setting


**Come, a tale of wolf and lion I tell**

_Their mouths find each other and fight warmly, biting with their lips, resting their tongues lightly on their teeth, playing in their caverns where the heavy air comes and goes with the scent of an old perfume and silence. Then my hands want to hide in your hair, slowly stroke the depth of your hair while we kiss with mouths full of flowers or fish, of living movements, of dark fragrance._

* * *

It's a Sunday afternoon at the Café Musain when Éponine plunks the third coffee mug in front of him and he snaps out of his involuntary nap. She smirks and strides off, leaving him between piled up books about society theories. He groans; finger smudged with ink rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Contrary to popular belief, he is not one of those students who turn in their 15 pages essay one day after the semester has started. No, he's one of those who will borrow the books from the library and be done with it, feeling like they already accomplished half of the work. He's one of those students who sit in the library at 4am, high on coffee and fiercely punching into their keyboards, determined on finishing the work when the sun rises.

Today's deadline is at sunset and he is so tired. While he cannot deny that he is a very ambitious and strong-minded person, that does not necessarily include a fierce joy for assignments. He loves university and he loves discussions in his seminars, but he absolutely hates writing his papers. He's got better things to do, more important stuff to plan, there's a new speech to be written, new flyers to be designed, new locations to be explored, new members to be recruited –

"Attention to your paper, monsieur."

She smacks the back of his head while cleaning the table next to his and he snorts, yet tries to find the passage he was reading before dozing off.

"Yes, mademoiselle."

She clicks with her tongue and then scurries away to serve another costumer.

* * *

It's a Sunday afternoon at the Café Musain when Courfeyrac jumps up behind him with a cry of sheer _mirth_ and he realizes that he's been drooling on Bourdieu's _La Reproduction - Éléments pour une théorie du système d'enseignement_.

He turns to see Courfeyrac waving something in his hands, Les Amis curiously gathered around him, trying to find the reason behind Courfeyrac's outburst of cheer. He huffs and returns to his books, brows furrowed. He needs to get this done by midnight and it's not as if he doesn't know Bourdieus's theories of social justice by heart, so this paper should be easy after all. He tries to fight the weight of his eyelids and focuses on the book in front of him.

The shuffling however doesn't stop.

He ignores it for about five more minutes, then throws his pencil away and shoots an annoyed glare into the direction of his friends.

His _guide_ and his _centre_ (Jehan had used these words once as a very bad pick up line and even though the four girls had turned on their heels, the nick names seemed to stick) are snickering and pointing at him and then Éponine marches up to them, dish towel still in her hands, and she snatches away whatever might have started the turmoil, ready to dive into a lecture about how she will throw them out of the café if they dare to even breathe -

And then she grows quiet, red blood creeping into her face, the blush furiously spreading over her nose, spilling on her cheeks and without any witty comment she pushes the thing back into Courfeyrac's hands. She turns on her heels, hurriedly walking past a baffled Musichetta, almost running towards the loo.

Enjolras stands up and walks over to his best friend, now interested in what he is holding. It's not a sight he sees very often – a silent retreat from Éponine Thénardier. Les amis are quietly watching him when he tugs the by now slightly rumpled paper from Courfeyrac's hands and tries to smoothen it.

It's a photograph.

It's a photograph of him and Éponine and _oh_, he gets her flight to the loo.

Their eyes are closed, their noses touching, their lips parted. The sun shines into the camera and her raven hair spills over her shoulders. Her hands are not visible, but he remembers. He feels them resting on his legs, fingers curled into the fabric of his jeans, strawberry juice sticking to them. He knows there's a smudge of dirt on his right cheek and he knows that her lipstick had been scarlet. He remembers the kiss and her skin against his, hears her whispered words and how his blood rushed through his veins.

He stares at the picture and wonders why it turns up now, for what he sees seems so far away. A riot, one year ago, smashed windows and tear gas and cries and fists and words, great words spilling from his lips. Him standing behind the lectern, sweat of excitement gathering on his forehead, because this was politics, this was he changing the world.

And that was she, changing his world, when he caught her grin in the masses and later her hands in his, her feet pushing against the ground, running, ready to fly, and always next to him. She was wild and reckless and with the street turning into war around them, she grinned at him with pure joy.

And when the police came marching to stop them, she bared her teeth, darkness flashing in her eyes: _I am a Thénardier. I'm the daughter of a wolf. You are men. Well, I'm a woman. You don't frighten me._

While he rose with courage, she was already towering with anger, ready to turn the world into dust.

They returned with a few cuts and scratches, but also with pride and success. Les amis gathered in Jehan's garden, turned the content of his fridge into a feast and when she had been diving into her fruit salad, he had sat down next to her. Bickering turned into laughter, laughter turned into touch and hours later, strawberry juice on her hands and dirt smudges on his cheek, she had kissed him.

And although she knew no borders (be it personal, verbal, physical or sexual), she had established barriers. Tearing them down presented the same _thrill_ as planning a riot: danger and the drive to succeed.

She enchanted him, turned into the comforting night he could seek for escape, but also into a push of frightening darkness that he sometimes needed as reminder of what could go wrong in this world. He grew to be the lion and she the frivolous wolf.

But right now, she is probably hiding in a stall, embarrassment still visible on her cheeks, so he jogs towards the toilets, the picture forgotten on the table.

(Later Combeferre will find it between the pages of Sartre.)

* * *

- fin


End file.
